


Imagine: Castiel reading aloud an enrapturing rendition of the weather report to you (ft. Dean Winchester).

by webcricket



Series: Castiel Imagines [40]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 09:45:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14566350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket





	Imagine: Castiel reading aloud an enrapturing rendition of the weather report to you (ft. Dean Winchester).

Wandering into the bunker’s kitchen, drawn there by the scents of coffee, bacon, and the fact it’s where you can typically find a certain blue-eyed angel you adore on any given morning when he’s not occupying the space beside you warming your sheets, you bounce down the stairs and drag your fingertips along Castiel’s trench coat shrouded shoulders as you move past him to sink into the available angel-adjacent seat.

Cas sweeps his hands upward from the table in finely nuanced practice, clinging to the rustling leaves of the newspaper when you swing your bare feet into his lap and bury your cold toes beneath the lapels of his suit. “Whatcha doin’?” Chewing the plump pout of your lower lip, you pinch his tie between your toes and give it a playful tug.

Dean rolls his sleep-swollen greens from his vantage point opposite in judgement of your shameless flirtation. “What does it look like he’s doin’?” he mocks between bites of breakfast. “Some of us are trying to eat in peace, by the way.”

In retribution, you reach across the table and steal a piece of perfectly crisped bacon from his dish and pop it in your mouth before he can lodge a protest.

“Hey!” He swats at your hand, too late, reflexes still numbed by a restless night’s sleep.

You stick out your salt-sprinkled tongue.

Unperturbed by the antic bickering going on around him, Cas’ squinting blues remain fixed on the black ink print before him. Perceiving a window of silence in which to answer your question, he states, “Reading the weather report for this week”

“What does it say?” you ask, heels burrowing deeper into the solid warmth of the angel’s thighs. “Any chance my feet will thaw in the next few days?”

“Weathermen are the biggest con going,” Dean grumbles, shoving the last surviving piece of bacon on his plate into his smirking maw. “And ya know, you could put on some damn socks.”

“Not talking to you, Winchester.” You cast him a shushing scowl. “I’m talking to my sexy weather seraphim over here.”

Cas glances sidelong at you to gauge your seriousness.

“Go on, _read it to me_ ,” you urge, twisting a finger into the corner of your mouth around the coquettish half-smile curling up your lip. 

Dean exhales a growl of displeasure loud enough to echo off the concrete and tile walls as he sips his coffee.

Cas returns his regard to the report and begins reading it aloud in his sonorous strangely sumptuous gravel tone. “Tuesday, 70% chance of showers in the morning, turning sunny by late afternoon. High 67, overnight low, 48.” He quirks a brow and flits his focus to you to determine if you’d like him to continue. He notes your raptly parted lips and the soft pant escaping them and takes this as an affirmative sign to go on. “Wednesday-” His eyes tear from you to find the page again. “-a warm front sets up, partly cloudy skies prevailing. Dry. High 72, overnight low, 54. Thursday-”

“What about today? What does it say about today?” you gasp, bending forward to lay a palm to his wrist. When he locks onto your lust-darkening gaze, you lick your lips and crook a foot to wriggle your toes provocatively from his belt buckle to his crotch.

Newspaper shuddering in his grip, sitting up straighter, his attention darts briefly to the seemingly oblivious Dean then back to you. He gulps hard, the thick rise and fall of his Adams apple bobbing the unshaven scruff of his neck as he grows hard under your teasing touch.

“I’ll tell you what I predict,” you purr. Sliding your feet to the floor, pushing the newspaper haphazardly aside, you stand and drape your body into the angel’s now empty embrace.

Catching on, Dean gripes, “Okay, I’m outta here!” Sloshing coffee in his haste, he wisely abandons his post to stumble for the door.

You tender tiny kisses and nips along the square line of the angel’s gaping jaw, cadence dropping seductively low as you rasp in his ear, “Monday, 100% chance of being _hot_ and _bothered_ in the morning, scorching extended heat wave leading record breaking _highs_ by evening. Expect a sultry ni-”

The angel silences you with a heated growling kiss.


End file.
